


The Sight of Her

by lexyhamilton (ohheichoumyheichou)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Guilt, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 05:39:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9978050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohheichoumyheichou/pseuds/lexyhamilton
Summary: T-Bag finds an opportunity to have his way with Michael, but it doesn't go quite as he expects. (translation from French)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [The Sight of Her](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/268841) by Tya. 



> This is a translation of a fanfic posted back in 2006. It's one of my favorites for this pairing, so this is my effort to bring it to the English speaking audience. If you spot any errors those are almost certainly mine, not the beautiful original author's.

Theodore Bagwell's world is divided into two halves, which are very black and white: there is the part that consists of his family, and the other consisting of his enemies. His family are all the people who make prison feel like home—the people to whom he promised protection and who, in turn, are always there for him.

Taking care of this family is his only real concern—that and perhaps to increase its size. Because when he sees new arrivals who look vulnerable, he can only think about protecting these boys from the blacks. The enemies of Theodore Bagwell are… everyone else. Those who refused his protection, those who didn't merit it, those who shouldn't exist in the first place. There are some enemies to whom he is indifferent, because they don't bother his family. These he ignores as long as they stay out of his way. But there are others, the troublemakers, whom Theodore always watches out of the corner of his eye—ready to pounce in case they ever show weakness. All those who pose a threat have to be snuffed out as soon as possible, because Theodore takes care of his own—and because he hates anybody who questions his dominance. Because he would never submit to anyone else.

\---

Michael Scofield is a paradox in the world of Theodore Bagwell.

Michael Scofield is a magnet that disrupts the polarity of Theodore's world.

He refused protection when it was offered to him, and yet Theodore still feels this profound need to protect him.

In the end, Michael's refusal matters very little. Theodore knows Michael needs him.

He killed a member of the family, and not just any member. Maytag. Maytag who managed to learn—God only knows how—to satisfy Theodore before he was even conscious of his desires. Theodore feels like killing Michael for that, in the slowest, most painful way he can.

Theodore feels like killing Michael and yet would never let anyone else do him harm.

Because Michael is the only enemy that is also part of the family.

In one sense, Michael is more a part of the family than anyone else. More than Maytag even. Unlike the others who got added into the family, Michael belongs to it by right. It is a right that even Theodore himself can't do anything about: it's as though Michael has had a place in it all along.

\---

Sometimes Theodore would prefer if life returned to being as simple as it had been before Michael had disrupted it: that the separation between family and enemy would be as clearly demarcated as it was previously. But Michael, this elusive combination of vulnerability and strength of character, has become a strange sort of fulcrum in Theodore's life balance.

Theodore craves him like never before: he craves to protect him, and he craves to hate him.

Michael is his paradox.

Michael lifts the boundaries of his world, redraws them, makes them cross every which way, and loosens them like strings in a tangle.

Michael doesn't know it, but he is the only one who makes Theodore's world coherent and bearable.

\---

T-Bag was never invited to the little informal gatherings of the escape group. Scofield often had discussions with one or two of the accomplices in remote corners of the prison, but T-Bag had never been asked to join these meetings. He didn't worry about it. Even though he distrusted Scofield, he had confidence in his plans and knew that his own contribution wasn't necessary. Nor did he see any real problem in gaining his freedom without having to make any effort. 

This particular day, he saw Michael and C-Note go into a shed alone after making sure it was empty. He idly watched the surroundings, ready to divert the attention of anyone who approached the shed. C-Note walked out, looking nonchalant. Their gazes met—they exchanged silent insults—and then C-Note turned and walked away. It didn't take T-Bag a fraction of a second to take note that there was no other member of their group in sight and that Scofield was all alone. He didn't hesitate.

A light smile on his lips, he detached himself from the wall he had been leaning against and made quick progress toward the shed. A quick glance around reassured him that no one had noticed him, and he went inside. Scofield was standing with his back to him, tinkering with his watch, but turned immediately at the noise the door made.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, frowning.

"Mm, not happy to see me, Pretty?" T-Bag answered as he closed the door behind him.

"I don't have time to chat, sorry."

Michael was scrutinizing him with a suspicious, cautious gaze. He wasn't afraid—ever since Abruzzi had given him protection, he didn't fear T-Bag anymore—but he wasn't exactly at ease either.

Being alone with T-Bag was a circumstance he tried to avoid as much as possible: the predatory stare always aimed at him wasn't the most reassuring.

"That'll do just fine, seeing as how I had no intention of chatting either," T-Bag said, passing his tongue over his lips.

Michael couldn't mistake his intentions. He nervously eyed the closed door behind T-Bag but his voice was as calm as ever when he repeated, "I don't feel like playing games, T-Bag. You're going to step away from the door and I'm going to leave. Now."

"Nah, no one's leaving before I decide they do."

"Don't do this. You're likely to regret it," Michael warned him in a voice that sounded less and less sure of itself.

"Or else what? You'll kill me?" T-Bag taunted. "You really think attracting attention to yourself before the escape is the best solution?"

T-Bag smiled when Scofield made an involuntary step backwards. A gleam of fear ignited in the young man's eyes and just kept growing.

"You need me for the escape."

"But I have no intentions of killing you, rest assured." T-Bag paused, thinking. "Well, you may have some troubling sitting down a good week or so, but if you're cooperative, there won't be any scars."

Michael's eyes widened at that declaration, and he clenched his fists. He was going to have try to get out of here at any cost.

T-Bag immediately guessed what was passing through Scofield's mind—it passed through everyone's mind at these junctures—and when the young man launched himself at him, he received him as he deserved: he dodged in time to avoid the hook thrown his way and threw his own punch right into Scofield's chest. His wind knocked out, Michael staggered backwards. He made a second desperate attempt to reach the door but T-Bag, who had more experience in these sort of fights, hit the neck of his opponent with a sharp blow. Michael collapsed, coughing, trying to breathe in.

In an instant, T-Bag lifted him up and pressed him flat against the table. He locked Scofield's arms behind his back, hindering any movement, and shoved his legs apart to prevent kicking. He was completely at his mercy.

Scofield's breathing was all fear now—an uncontrollable terror. His scared eyes contrasted with the clenched set of his jaw, but his overall expression was that of a defenseless animal caught in a trap. T-Bag was torn between the lust that sort of scared look provoked in him, and a strange compulsion to reassure his prey. He frowned, uneasy. It was the first time he felt this bit of compassion for one of his victims. But Scofield wasn't an ordinary victim: there was something about him… something that forced empathy from T-Bag, in spite of himself.

Without relaxing his grip on Scofield, he slid his hand into his pocket and took out the square piece of cotton inside. He twisted it around his fingertips, presenting, eager for Scofield to put his hand on it. Because then, and only then, would it be possible for him to be treated with compassion. Only people who were protected by him had the right to be treated gently.

"Take my pocket, and everything will go better," he murmured into Scofield's ear.

The young man didn't reply, but turned his head away. His refusal was crystal clear.

"Take it, Pretty. I won't cause you any hurt if you just take it."

Michael knew that taking the pocket wouldn't be enough for T-Bag to let him go. Taking it would be paying ransom to a terrorist, knowing he'll still commit the attack. It wouldn't help. It would, at best, give T-Bag the impression that he had power over him and that he could do with him as he saw fit.

"Take it, whore!" T-Bag demanded, exasperated.

Couldn't he understand, the little genius? Couldn't he understand that if he didn't take it, T-Bag wouldn't be able to be gentle with him? T-Bag could feel the anger rising within him. Anger at Scofield—for being so stubborn—but also an inexplicable anger at himself.

"I thought when your damned pocket is refused the first time, you wouldn't be offering it again," Michael suddenly challenged him. 

T-Bag closed his eyes. To break a rule for Scofield was one thing, but to hear it said out loud was another. Especially when the second offer was no more successful than the first. Suddenly a feeling of pain overtook the feeling of anger. It wasn't really pain of having been rejected, but pain for Scofield. Because he wouldn't be able to protect him from himself.

When he reopened his eyes, there was nothing but the predator ready to consume his prey there. He proceeded without any more ado.

Michael let out a surprised yelp when T-Bag shoved his hips into the table. Michael felt the man's hardness against his ass and swallowed hard. He couldn't see how to extricate himself out of this situation and the fact that his intellect was of no help made him almost as anxious as the situation itself. This was in addition to the fact that he couldn't quite reconcile this T-Bag with the one that he was accustomed to in the company of the other inmates: this T-Bag who was behaving so erratically—switching between anger and sweetness for no discernable reason. He honestly wasn't sure he'd come out alive from this encounter with the psychopath. His only remaining hope was that another person would walk in and intervene, and he clung to this idea with all his spirit.

T-Bag buried his face into the back of Michael's neck, inhaling, filling his lungs full of the masculine scent of his prey.

They say that fear has a scent: T-Bag liked to think so as well. He had the opportunity to smell this scent many times throughout his life. But Scofield's scent… it was a special kind of fear. A scent that brought back childhood, somehow, but in away that T-Bag couldn't identify precisely. And even as he made to tear all the clothing off Scofield and make use of his body, he found himself entrapped by this scent, unable to focus his attention on anything else.

He didn't experience any of the gratifying feelings of power that these situations usually brought out in him. He was feeling a certain discomfort—a _disgust_ , even—at the idea of taking Scofield by force. Something told him that it was a fear that he couldn't abuse, a fear he needed to respect. He tried to rid himself of this thought by biting Scofield's shoulder, hoping to supplant the fear with pain—pain would be easier to manage. When a little bit of blood wet his lips, he relaxed slightly, as if he was reassured that he could still inflict damage despite his strange qualms about it.

The respite was cut short. The cry of pain that Michael had suppressed finally escaped his lips when T-Bag passed his tongue over the flesh he had just bitten. T-Bag ceased playing with the wound immediately, desperate not to do him any more harm. Not to do him harm or not to hear that cry again, he didn't rightly know. All he knew was, he had to avoid making Scofield suffer. No more suffering.

Instead, he dragged his tongue along the length of Michael's neck, tasting him and the sweat that was beading there. He managed to hold Michael's arms down with one hand, and having freed the second, wrapped it around Scofield's hip. He pressed himself against him, possessive and protective all at once, and began cautiously playing with Michael's right earlobe, taking care not to bite too hard and frighten him.

The hand resting on his hip slid under Michael's shirt, and his fingers began to gently caress the tattooed skin of his stomach. There was a tenderness in the gesture that didn't escape Michael's notice, and he asked himself if that triggered nausea or hope in him, and which reaction was the more appropriate. Maybe all of this was just a perverse game for T-Bag. He didn't need to have personal experience to know that T-Bag was a violent lover of those who hadn't "taken his pocket"; hearsay was enough to know that much. Maybe he only wanted to give the semblance of gentleness, the better to force him afterwards?

Whatever they were, T-Bag's ministrations—though far from giving Michael the slightest sexual desire—were calming him down all the same. And so, while T-Bag kissed the hinge of his jaw, Michael stopped gritting his teeth and began to think rationally again. It seemed to him that the best course of action to get away was to relax enough and make T-Bag believe he wouldn't move even if released.

This fine theory proved impossible to put into practice when the hand that had been petting him gently slid down under the elastic waistband of his pants. Reflexively, Michael shrank away, trying to escape from the intrusion. His jolt backwards only served to rub him up against T-Bag's crotch, and the latter's grip on him to tighten.

"Shhh…" T-Bag whispered in his ear.

Without thinking, T-Bag had taken on a sweet and cajoling voice. Comforting. The type of voice you'd use to calm someone down when they're having a nightmare. Definitely not the voice he should have taken on to make Scofield obey him. But what did it matter, really…

He waited for Scofield to lie still and be under control again before making another attempt, more gently than the first time—if that was even possible. He gradually slid his hand down along Scofield's hipbone, not even going underneath the underwear, so that Scofield would get used to its presence there.

It was when T-Bag realized that his hand was resting motionless, right next to Scofield's cock, waiting patiently for his agreement to go ahead, that the ridiculousness of the whole situation suddenly struck him. He entered the shed to take Scofield for himself, once and for all, and yet here he was, massaging him, begging to be accepted.

Michael sensed the tension that took hold of T-Bag, but didn't understand the furious force with which his pants were suddenly dragged down. This was surely the moment where the mask came down. Where T-Bag stopped playing around with a smile on his face and finally took a bite. Michael closed his eyes and let any rational thoughts escape him, no hope left. At least fear gave him an impression of being alive, and not just an object in the hands of his executioner.

T-Bag, as irritated as he was, was mostly irritated at his own reactions. Once he became aware of his ridiculous feelings, he was propelled to finish the deed as quickly as possible, but it didn't affect his decision to be gentle with Michael. He decided, for the first time in a long time, that he'd make the effort to prepare his victim. He put one of his fingers into his mouth and moistened it up properly before putting it inside the other man. A sigh escaped Scofield's lips, one of disgust more so than pain. T-Bag worked his finger back and forth briefly before adding a second, after wetting it too.

This time Michael felt a slight ache, and his whole body tensed. T-Bag felt the ring of muscle contract around his fingers and held them still until part of tension disappeared again. He resumed the movement, going in and out and scissoring his fingers to better relax Scofield's muscles.

It was when he introduced a third finger that Michael's face contorted in pain. Then his eyes widened when T-Bag brushed past his prostate and a little tingle of pleasure took him by surprise. He immediately chided himself for this sort of weakness, and clenched his teeth to brace himself against the shudders that were going through him whenever T-Bag caressed this ultra-sensitive spot. He refused to let his body surrender like that, because then he would be surrendering his dignity—the only thing he had still kept from T-Bag, and which threatened to disappear as well. He wasn't about to give that kind of satisfaction to a psychopath. 

Guessing that Scofield was as prepared as he was ever going to be, T-Bag took out his fingers and was about to let his own pants down. But the terrified sob that Scofield let out, doubtless at the idea of what was about to happen, stopped him dead in his tracks.

Jumbled in a whole host of contradictory emotions, T-Bag stared at Scofield without moving.

That terrified sob—he knew it. He thought to have forgotten it—it was going back to so long ago. But no, she had escaped the meandering corridors of his childhood to recall herself to him as clearly as it had been happening at the time. It was her. Her, terrorized. Her, also in the hands of her executioner.

The memory of her scent invaded his mind just as quickly: this particular scent of fear that he sensed on Scofield… It was hers too. Her. Her. The primal fear of someone innocent and pure… the same scent on Scofield. Her. Him. They were one and the same. It was impossible, and yet they were one.

The hand that was holding Scofield down suddenly felt like it was burning, and he let go in an abrupt movement. He couldn't touch her. Not her. He turned away and put his face in his hands to avoid seeing Scofield's face, the face that now reminded him of hers.

Everything made sense now. If she was Scofield, everything made sense.

\---

Michael turned slowly, too stunned to react. He looked from T-Bag to the door, but T-Bag, his back to him, didn't even seem to be aware of his presence. Michael dressed himself silently but didn't bolt outside as he should have done, as he would have wanted to do. T-Bag let out a sound that would have sounded eerily similar to a sob if it had been any person other than Theodore Bagwell. But even without tears, that sound was enough to glue Michael to the spot.

When he quietly approached T-Bag, he told himself that, really, this kind of capacity to empathize was detrimental (that's what the psychiatrist told him, in any case) and that he'd do much better to get out of there like any other person would do in his place. And yet despite what he'd been subjected to—or came close to being subjected to—he couldn't bring himself to turn away from this sudden suffering.

He made his way around T-Bag, without touching him, but couldn't see his face, hidden as it was in his hands. T-Bag was moving his head repetitively, and Michael realized he was shaking. When T-Bag finally pulled his hands away from his face, his eyes were dry but reddened. Haunted.

He looked at Michael with an uncertain gaze, as if he wasn't sure who was standing in front of him. Then his hand rose, as if moving of its own accord, and reached towards Michael's face. Michael hesitated, but the gesture had nothing threatening or sexual about it, and he let it happen, remaining on guard. The hand contented itself with just tracing its fingertips along the light wrinkles across his forehead.

T-Bag let out a small strangled chuckle and Michael couldn't tell if he was sad or happy from this laugh.

"You're the same as her, I'm just asking myself how I didn't see it before," T-Bag said.

"Who are you talking about?" 

T-Bag seemed to snap out of his confusion, looked around himself and focused his attention back on Scofield.

"What are you still doing here."

Good question. Michael asked himself whether 'I'm worried about the mental state of my would-be rapist' was in any way a sane response.

"Who are you talking about?" he repeated instead.

T-Bag hesitated but something in Scofield's face put him at ease. He had a concerned expression, sincere, and it was the first time that he had managed to garner that kind of attention from someone. She gave him that kind of attention, long ago, but no one since her. He shouldn't be surprised that someone who reminds him of her would have the same sincerity in their eyes.

"My mother."

What Scofield could glean from those simple words, T-Bag would never know. But when he took him in his arms, T-Bag did not hesitate to allow himself to be in the arms of his mother again. He murmured excuses in a low voice—for trying to touch him now, for not being able to prevent his father from touching her in the past.

When T-Bag finally peeled himself away from Scofield, after a long minute, they readjusted their clothing silently and without looking at each other.

Just before passing through the door, T-Bag seized him by the arm and looked him straight in the eye.

"If you tell anyone about this…" he began in a threatening tone

"If you ever touch me again…" Michael retorted simply. 

T-Bag nodded slowly and put his hand on the doorhandle. Before turning it, he turned one last time towards Scofield. He pulled out his pocket and, fingering it, asked in a nonchalant tone:

"You sure you don't wanna…?"

Michael glared at him and T-Bag shrugged indifferently. He turned and walked outside.

"You're right, the pocket's become a terrible cliché. I'll find something else for you."

And as T-Bag walked away, blasé and as if nothing had taken place, Michael couldn't help half-smiling.


End file.
